


Raising Hell

by Fyre



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Actors, Aziraphale is a classical actor, Crowley is a stand-up comedian and actor, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:02:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29887050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: After nearly a decade of their particular brand of friendship, Aziraphale Fell and Crowley have only just reached a point where they have been cast to act together in the same television show. When it seems like the show won't get picked up, they take matters into their own hands.Updates every Saturday
Comments: 29
Kudos: 50





	Raising Hell

**Author's Note:**

> I blame Summerofspock for this. Also thank for all the "AAAAAAAAAAAA!" messages they've fielded based on it :D Also a nod to Mia_Ugly, whose actor AU was my first foray into actor AUs in Good Omens :)
> 
> Also, as per the Law, there will be an obscene number of references to the show. Because I can't help myself.

**In the beginning**

“Well,” someone spoke several inches behind Aziraphale, “that went down like a lead balloon.”

Aziraphale glanced up from the pages of his script, startled to be disturbed at a bus stop. “What was that?”

A skinny gangling black-clad man sprawled down onto the peculiar slanted bench beside him. When had they stopped putting sensible benches or seats in bus stops? Honestly, these angled ridges of metal were hardly designed for anyone with more than a handful of buttock.

“That,” the man said with a melodramatic sigh and an expansive wave to Aziraphale’s script, “went down like a lead balloon.”

It took a moment for Aziraphale’s brain to catch up, then he recalled the slinky chap had also been at the chemistry reading, bouncing off one of the other actors. Given the man’s age, they must have been reading the same role, which seemed incongruous: where he was soft and well-padded, this man was all angles and flaming hair. And, if Aziraphale remembered correctly, the man wasn’t even a real actor. A comedian playing at acting.

It also meant that he had seen the rather disastrous incident with the poor young actors who clearly had no idea they were flouting all propriety. “Oh! Oh, yes, it did rather.” He hastily folded up and tucked the pages away. “Mr…?”

“Crowley.” The man leaned casually back against the wall of the bus shelter, crossing his ankles in front of him. “Bit of an overreaction if you ask me. First chemistry read and everything.” He tilted towards Aziraphale. “I don’t see what all the fuss was about. How were they to know what a diva the director was? F’you don’t want someone picking at your sweet bowl, maybe don’t leave it on the table where the drinks are.”

Aziraphale fidgeted with the edge of his waistcoat. Well. Yes. That was a fair point. And it had been a bit much, kicking out the poor actors. A minor sin in the grand scheme of things.

“Still, it _is_ a little rude,” he said, “even if you encouraged them.”

Crowley grinned. “Yeah. Maybe a bit.” He cocked his head, studying Aziraphale. “Were you up for Tom, then? In the reading? Nice juicy part, that.”

“Er…” Aziraphale cleared his throat, giving his shoes an impromptu inspection. They really did need a polish.

“Well, I didn’t get it, and you were one of the only other people there our age and–”

“I gave it away,” Aziraphale blurted out, mortified.

“You _what_?”

“I… the role.” Aziraphale fidgeted self-consciously, tugging at the ends of his waistcoat. “I saw Frank rehearsing and I knew the part should go to him, so I… withdrew from the running. His cheeks burned. “Oh, don’t gawp at me like that!”

“Well, aren’t you just an angel,” Crowley said dryly. “Your agent’s gonna kill you.”

That was rather what he’d been trying not to think about. “I do hope I haven’t done the wrong thing.”

Crowley actually laughed. “I mean, you nicked a role from me, but I had the feeling they were stunt casting me anyway. Not like I was ever a serious contender.” He leaned forwards, looking down the road. “Ah, our chariot approaches.” He glanced at Aziraphale. “This your bus?”

Aziraphale peered out at it. “Afraid not,” he replied, then raised his eyebrows as Crowley fished out a bank card from his ridiculously tight trousers. “Isn’t it more expensive to pay by debit?”

“Dunno,” Crowley replied, flipping the card across the back of his fingers. “Never had an Oyster card.” He threw a salute Aziraphale’s way as the bus hissed to a stop, the door sliding open. “Ciao!”

As the bus rumbled off, Aziraphale stared after it. What a very odd man.

___________________________________________________

**2019**

“Are you absolutely sure?”

Crowley nodded gloomily. “No question of it.”

It felt rather incongruous, discussing such miserable news on a splendid spring day, bathed in sunlight on a bench in St. James’s Park. Pigeons pecked aimlessly around their feet for some kind of treat and Aziraphale frowned at a passing squirrel.

“No more than a pilot?”

“And all the ignominy thereof,” Crowley lamented.

Well that… it wasn’t fair at _all_. After nearly a decade of their particular brand of friendship, they had only just reached a point where they had been cast to act together in the same television show. Crowley’s acting career was really taking wing and the show had held such promise, the premise a delightful blend of _You Rang, M’Lord_ and _The Omen_.

“But _why_?”

Crowley shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Same as always, angel. Money makes the world go round, and no one wants to watch a pair of old queens like us in a leading role.” The line of his jaw tightened, a muscle twitching in his cheek. “We could… do something.”

Aziraphale glanced cautiously sidelong at him. “You know that’s not true, not when it comes to a television show.”

“Yeah, but imagine it.” Crowley tilted towards him, voice lowered conspiratorially. “Give it a boost, get the word out. I mean being ‘diverse’ is all the rage now, isn’t it? Best chance we’ve got. Okay, yeah, middle-aged and white, but how many shows out there have people like _us_ in a lead role? Hell, how many shows have someone like me playing someone like _me_?”

Therein lay the rub.

“I can’t,” Aziraphale mumbled, twisting his hands together. “You know Gabriel is a stickler for me doing things by the book.”

“What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him,” Crowley prodded on, nudging him.

Aziraphale fidgeted with his ring. “No,” he said, getting up. “It’s– I know we were both very excited about it, but I really can’t go against the team. And even if I _could_ do something, if it didn’t work, we would be out on our ear anyway and Gabriel would have a flea in his ear about it for months.”

Crowley unfurled to his feet. “It’s not like I’m saying parade through the streets naked on a unicorn,” he said, falling into step beside Aziraphale as they headed back in the direction of Horseguards. “I’m just saying we can nudge things along a bit and–”

“Crowley, really. You know how little say we get.”

“We’ve only got eleven days,” Crowley insisted urgently, “and when are we ever going to get a chance to work together again? I mean, properly together, not just standing on opposite sides of the same set for five minutes. And how many shows have you been in with multiple men your age? And me? How often do I get a chance like this?”

He _was_ right, but the last time Aziraphale had even _tried_ dabbling in the production side of things, the producers had a word with the director who had a word with his agency who had a word with Gabriel. “No,” he insisted, just as firmly.

Crowley made a face at him, twisting his lips. “Look, it’s not like you covering my slot at the Fringe again when you’re at the festival! You can’t say no.”

And there was yet another of those moments where Gabriel would have come down on him like a ton of bricks, if he had known about it.

Thankfully, it had been a late night window and many of the people in attendance had been too drunk to appreciate the merits of Wilde About the Boy, an improvised narrative from the perspective of Robbie Ross. Only one critic had been in attendance and they had been surprisingly generous, but had misspelled his name, which is why no one at the agency would ever know.

“No!” he said again, glancing along the path that led towards Leicester square. If he hurried, he would still have time to make the lunchtime specials at–

“How about lunch?”

He pivoted back to Crowley, who flashed that charming, devil-may-care grin at him.

“I still owe you one,” Crowley said, rocking on the balls of his feet. “When was it again?”

Aziraphale tried his best to still look put out. “Bristol. 2016.”

“Yes!” A brighter smile lit Crowley’s face. “Bristol. You were revolting.”

“I think you’ll find that was you.” Aziraphale couldn’t help but laugh. “We had falafel.”

In hindsight, he ought to have seen what the wily old fiend was up to. Nothing quite buttered Aziraphale Fell up like a bowl of buttered potatoes and a particularly fine filet mignon in a high class restaurant. The rich chocolate mousse for dessert was an especially nice touch.

He was a little vague on how they got from there to the bookshop-turned-flat that he called his home, but they had. The wine, he presumed. It had been particularly good, and they both had a day off so he hadn’t seen the harm.

They’d started socialising at the bookshop a couple of years earlier. Crowley had – of course – teased him mercilessly about the fact he not only owned a prime piece of retail property in Soho of all places, but that he didn’t use it as such. It was more like a private library that he lived in.

“I own the flat upstairs too!” he had protested indignantly.

“Uh huh. But you _live_ down here.” Crowley pointed emphatically to the wardrobe and bed and – most deliberately – his pyjamas folded on the radiator.

That much _was_ true. He had made himself a cosy little home among his bookshelves and wine racks. He’d even had a small bathroom extension put into the old delivery yard to save him the need to use the flat, which he had surreptitiously been letting out to an old friend for years.

Crowley had come so often that there was now a dent in his shape on the couch, where he reclined like royalty and expected to be entertained.

Which, naturally, led to more wine.

“S’not day-drinking if you think about it,” Crowley said, as Aziraphale refilled both their glasses. “If you think about it, in Australia it’s night time. We’re just… Australia drinking.”

Aziraphale frowned at him. “I don’t think that works,” he said, peering into his own glass. “I mean, it’s daytime outside.”

“Only”–Crowley swayed, wagging a finger emphatically–“from a certain point of view.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale shuffled down in his chair a little more, warm and full and comfortable. “And my point of view says it’s three o’clock in the afternoon, which makes it daytime.”

“Pffft.” The mess of limbs that made up Crowley splayed more gracelessly across the couch. He wiggled one of his feet in the direction of the ceiling, frowning up at it.

Aziraphale shifted in his armchair. “You’re making the face.”

“Hm?”

“The face.” He waved a hand vaguely towards Crowley. “The one that says you’re up to something.”

Crowley peered over at him. “Says you.” He shuffled up on the couch, propping one foot on the back. “M’just thinking if we can maybe make some suggestions. Shake up the premise. Give it a bit more…” He flailed a hand.

“Vim?”

“No!” Crowley made a face. “Ugh. Vim? Who even uses that anymore?”

“I do!”

His friend rolled his eyes expressively. “Course _you_ do, you Victorian throwback!” He scooted up a little further, propping his elbow on the other arm. “Think about it, though. S’a good premise, comedy about the Antichrist. We just need something more. Something… cool.”

The sound that came out of Aziraphale couldn’t be a snort. He wouldn’t allow it. “With you involved?”

“Oi! Cheeky bastard.” Crowley glugged a mouthful of wine. “What’s cool these days? What do the kids like?”

Considering his glass of wine solemnly, Aziraphale turned the glass and watched tiny bubbles chase in a thread along the inside of the curve. “Dinosaurs?” he suggested. “Or space? I hear they like space.”

“Budget, angel!” Crowley grumbled. “We’re not a top-billing sci-fi or nature show. What can we add to a show about the sodding Antichrist on a shoestring budget?” He rolled off the couch and landed on the floor. “Pass me the wine, would you?”

Reluctantly, Aziraphale reached for the bottle, handing it down. “Y’shouldn’t drink so much,” he said reprovingly, though he was possibly a cup or two ahead. “After all, the same shall drink of the wine of the wrath of God, which is poured out without mixture into the cup of his indignation.”

“Eh?”

The spatter of wine on the floor made both of them yelp. Apparently, _someone_ had forgotten to stop pouring, gawping like a gold-fish.

“Crowley!”

“Sorry!” Crowley scrambled up. “What the fuck was that? Wrath of God mumbo jumbo?”

“Tch!” Aziraphale fetched a cloth from the small kitchenette. “Revelations, dear boy? The whole reams of text about the Antichrist?” At Crowley’s utterly blank look, he tossed the cloth to him and retreated into the maze of his bookshelves, returning with his own well-worn Bible. “I’ve bookmarked the pages.”

On the floor, Crowley finished mopping the spatter of wine and flopped back up onto the couch. He dug out his frameless reading glasses that he always refused to wear in public, and flicked through the tissue-thin pages. “Did you just memorise this stuff?” he inquired, tracking across the text with his fingertip.

That made Aziraphale smile. “Not at all,” he said, “I thought it might be useful to do some research into the historical references to the Antichrist and you don’t get much more historical than dear old John.”

Crowley nodded distractedly, leafing through the pages. “This… there’s a lot of angels, isn’t there?”

“Mm.”

“Angels against…” Wide golden-brown eyes rose to him. “That’s it!”

“What’s it?” Aziraphale settled back in his chair.

“Angels!” Crowley’s brilliant grin flashed across his face. “S’what’s missing. We’ve got the comedy and the Antichrist, but we need some kind of conflict. What if we suggest this? Angels trying to stop the Antichrist and getting in the way and everything?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Wouldn’t work. Not all the time. People would find it predictable – an angel shows up, causes some chaos, and leaves.”

“What if…”

The long silence was enough to make Aziraphale suspicious. “What?”

“What if,” Crowley began again, a strange excited note in his voice, “if it’s not just a human household dealing with the Antichrist?”

“But those are our roles.”

Crowley waved his hand. “No, no, listen,” he said. “Antichrist brings about Armageddon and the war and all that bollocks, yeah? Well, humans are little buggers. Them upstairs – and downstairs – want to make sure he was doing it the right way. Or wrong way. Or whatever.”

Aziraphale frowned. “I’m not following.”

“What if… what if Heaven sent an angel to try and make the boy be good instead to stop the whole thing from happening? Like he’s part of the household. A constant.”

Oh. Yes. Yes, that might actually work. “And would add a bit of tension in the household, beyond the upstairs-downstairs carry on.” He giggled suddenly. “It would make it a much more celestial upstairs and downstairs, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes! Exactly!” Crowley slapped the Bible shut. “You get to be all holy and virtuous and–”

“ _Me_?” Aziraphale squawked. “Oh, for Heaven’s sake!”

Crowley gave him a snaky grin. “In character already.” When Aziraphale harrumphed, he made matters worse by leaning forward with a wiggle of his eyebrows. “You’d be playing his godfather. Very literally.”

“You,” Aziraphale informed him, fighting down a smile, “are a menace.”

“You up for it?” Somehow, Crowley managed to wiggle his phone out of the pocket of his ridiculously tight trousers. “I’ve got Agnes’s number.”

Given the likelihood it really wouldn’t do any harm, Aziraphale held out a hand, which Crowley took and shook solemnly. “Very well. Just this once.”


End file.
